


Washing Dishes

by zlabya



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlabya/pseuds/zlabya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posner and Scripps, now a forty-something married couple, still don't have a dishwasher, and don't really want one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Washing Dishes

They had long since learned that Scripps couldn't cook anything more complex than burned toast, and Posner couldn't wash a dish properly. So Scripps was scraping at congealed curry sauce while Posner wiped glasses they'd stolen decades ago from a pub they had frequented for its cheap beer and proximity to their first crappy apartment. Now that they owned a small semidetached together they could have installed a dishwasher, but something else always seemed more important--most recently, a new computer officially for Scripps' freelance work but more often for viewing lolcats and hilariously bad porn. They'd tried deliberately making a bad porn video once, involving an old bicycle chain, a bag of walnuts, and some glowing erotic-massage gel Scripps had found in the East End, but just ended up falling over each other's mostly-naked bodies laughing.

This evening, however, was far more sedate.

“...and that was my thrilling day attempting to drum up some actual journalism work instead of opportunities to write about the latest Olympics scandal. You haven't said anything about work yet today.” Scripps passed on a dish.

“That's because it was dead boring. For all of us. I nearly fell asleep, and over one of my most clever comments about the Restoration too. I don't think any of my students care one bit for history, only about getting into someone else's knickers.”

“All _you_ cared about at that age was getting into bloody Dakin's knickers, as I recall.”

Posner made a face and flicked the wet dishcloth in the general direction of his partner's broad backside. “And singing.”

“Yes, and singing. Only way I could get you to spend time with me outside class, back then.”

“Speaking of which, you're not allowed to fill in as rehearsal pianist again. One of the sixth-formers said you were 'kind of cute, for an older man.'”

Scripps grinned. “I've still got it, then!”

“And I still have you.” Posner smiled down at the plain twelve-carat gold ring on his left hand. _Still together, and married, even. I can really believe it's permanent, these days. Of course, the new drugs help a lot._ Finally finding an effective antidepressant that didn't destroy their sex life had made a huge difference. 

“Here we are—last pot.” Scripps waved the saucepan around. “Last pot, David.”

“Sorry, daydreaming.”

“Long as it's about me.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. You wearing that bow-tie the other night, and naught else but your tube socks.”

“Bow ties--”

“Are cool, yes I know. Don't know what you see in that ruddy show, the only one worth watching is the bloke married to that ginger girl, what's his name?”

“Rory.”

“Him. True to her over the centuries, no matter what happens to him. And still with that lovely, ordinary face.” Posner's expression was dreamy. “He's much like you, you know.”

“Me? I'm a good few stone heavier than him, and my hair's half gone.” Scripps passed a hand over his balding head.

“You have that bloody won't-ever-do-anything-to-hurt-you expression always on that ordinary-British-man mug of yours.” Posner wiped a soapy hand on the sodden dishcloth, then cupped his husband's face. “And you never have done, you know. I love you, you idiot.”

“Love you, David.” Scripps kissed him briefly but warmly on the lips. “Right, so this means we watch the Doctor tonight.”

“Sod off, it's Merlin night and you know it.”

“You know who that little whey-faced wizard reminds me of, don't you?”

“Not a clue.”


End file.
